Chapter 4 - The Breach at Mercer’s
While Claire rested under heavy guard at the estate, Graham Vance was losing his mind in his Manhattan penthouse.
The forty-two-year-old CEO stood before a floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking Central Park, holding a crystal glass of scotch. His face was sharp, handsome, and contorted with violent rage.
Behind him stood his chief security director, a former mercenary named Karl Vance.
“Trent failed?” Graham asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“Not just failed, sir,” Karl reported, his tone tense. “Silas Mercer was at the diner himself. He locked the doors, confiscated Trent’s weapons, and took the girl. Trent hasn’t been seen since midnight.”
Graham slammed his scotch glass onto the marble coffee table, shattering it into a hundred pieces.
“Silas Mercer is an old man who runs a glorified soup kitchen!” Graham roared, turning around with wild eyes. “He hasn’t ordered a hit in twenty years! He’s soft!”
“With respect, Mr. Vance,” Karl cautioned, stepping back slightly, “Mercer isn’t just an old man. He’s the Chairman of the Five Borough Commission. Every mob family in New York respects the neutrality of his diner. If we move against him, we cross the entire Syndicate.”
“I don’t care about the Syndicate!” Graham snarled, grabbing Karl by his lapels. “That girl has the key to my master ledger! If she hands that drive to the Federal Attorney, I’m looking at four life sentences in a supermax facility! My assets will be frozen by morning!”
Graham released Karl and smoothed his silk tie, his breathing heavy.
“Listen to me,” Graham commanded. “Mercer thinks his reputation will scare me off. Tonight, we send twenty men to Mercer’s Diner. I want it burned to the ground. I want his staff eliminated. Let the whole city see what happens when that old ghost tries to stand between me and what’s mine.”
Karl hesitated. “Burn Mercer’s Diner? Sir, that’s suicide.”
“Do it!” Graham screamed. “And find out where Mercer is hiding Claire! When you find the house, bring her to me alive—or bring me her head!”
Three hours later, a rainy midnight fell over Brooklyn.
Four unmarked black vans pulled up to the curb outside Mercer’s Diner. The streets were deserted, the streetlights flickering in the downpour.
Ten heavily armed men in tactical gear stepped out of the vehicles, carrying automatic rifles and canisters of military-grade thermite incendiaries.
The leader walked up to the glass front door, where the sign reading MERCER’S - OPEN 24 HOURS hung in the dark. He raised his boots to kick the lock inward.
Before his foot could make contact, the brass bell above the door rang from the inside.
The diner’s interior lights snapped on, blinding the mercenaries.
Sitting calmly at the counter, sipping a cup of black coffee, was Marcus. Behind him stood twenty silent men dressed in dark wool coats, every single one of them holding high-caliber suppressed weapons.
Outside in the rain, the side doors of three garbage trucks parked down the block burst open. Silas Mercer’s private security squad surrounded the four vans within seconds, cutting off every escape route.
Marcus set his coffee cup down on the saucer with a soft clink.
“Graham Vance really thought Silas didn’t keep watch over his own home,” Marcus said into a radio transmitter attached to his collar.
From the shadow of the alley across the street, Silas Mercer walked out under a black umbrella. He looked at the trapped mercenaries without an ounce of surprise.
“Drop your weapons,” Silas ordered calmly through a megaphone. “Or be buried beneath the pavement you stand on.”
The leader of Graham’s hit squad looked around at the fifty laser sights pinned to his chest. His hands trembled. He dropped his rifle onto the wet asphalt.
Within four minutes, all ten mercenaries were disarmed, zip-tied, and loaded into the back of a unmarked transport truck.
Silas walked up to the front window of his diner, looking at his reflection in the glass.
“Marcus,” Silas said softly.
May you like
“Yes, Boss?”
“Call the members of the Syndicate Commission,” Silas commanded, his voice cold as arctic ice. “Tell them we are holding an emergency Tribunal at midnight. It’s time Graham Vance learned why the old ghost never needed to raise his voice.”
